


a dream you can't quite place

by astrolesbian



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, M/M, i mean it's half angst half me having fun trying to imitate vhugo's writing style
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-21 07:30:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6043300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrolesbian/pseuds/astrolesbian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Wake up,” he says, as gently as he can. “If you must sleep it off then you must, but not here. The back room will be closed soon.”</p>
<p>Grantaire shifts, and looks up at him with one eye. “Ah, and you would not enjoy seeing me thrown into the cold? You are not as heartless as I imagined.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	a dream you can't quite place

The candles in the room have long since burned down, only a few still flickering. There is a curious emptiness that comes along with the burnt candles and the empty chairs and the silence after a meeting -- emptiness of the heart, Enjolras thinks, more than emptiness of the room itself. His friends are walking out the door, talking amongst themselves. Joly and Bossuet are putting on their hats and buttoning their coats, discussing dinner; Courfeyrac has an arm flung around Pontmercy, who looks as blatantly lovesick as ever, his eyes distant as Courfeyrac talks about the night and the wind and a young woman he saw at the bar the other day. Enjolras chuckles, shakes his head, and gathers his papers. He knows better than to interfere when Courfeyrac is determined to cheer someone up.

Prouvaire is packing up the papers that had been spread across the table, smiling at Combeferre, who is searching through a book for a passage he had found interesting, eager to show it to Prouvaire and discuss it on their way out. The rest of Enjolras’s friends are talking softly, making plans, their faces flushed from talking and debating and understanding.

Except Grantaire -- who is asleep on the tabletop, his head cradled in his arms. Enjolras sighs.

“Wake up,” he says, as gently as he can. “If you must sleep it off then you must, but not here. The back room will be closed soon.”

Grantaire shifts, and looks up at him with one eye. “Ah, and you would not enjoy seeing me thrown into the cold? You are not as heartless as I imagined.”

Enjolras snorts. “I have heart enough to want you sleeping this off in a bed and not the corner of a tavern,” he says. “I would offer my own, but you would not take it.”

Grantaire is silent at that, resting his head once more in the cradle of his arms. His eyes are very brown in the candlelight, and for a moment Enjolras can do nothing but watch them as they take in the scene, examine it, and make a decision. He wishes, not for the first time, that Grantaire would tell him what he is thinking.

“I will not allow myself to take advantage of your no doubt _generous_ hospitality, no,” Grantaire says finally. Enjolras flinches.

“And you think me the heartless one,” he murmurs, too soft for Grantaire to hear. He has long ago become frustrated with Grantaire; any attempt to become the other man’s friend has fallen flat, and any attempt to apologize when he yells at him during meetings falls even flatter. Grantaire will only laugh, bitter enough that Enjolras knows the wine is speaking, and turn away, off to drink somewhere else.

“I still wonder why you come back,” Enjolras says, as Prouvaire leaves the room, the last but for the two of them. “You don’t believe in what we do, and yet every week, you come back.” Grantaire puzzles him. He comes back only to mock, and he leaves with a set in his shoulders suggesting he will not return. And then he does. And sometimes his eyes are so soft, even when he is drunk. He looks at Enjolras with such tenderness, such openness.

He does this now, turning soft brown eyes to Enjolras’s face.

“If you don’t know why I stay by now,” he says, “I won’t tell you. You must invent a reason for me being here, instead. Invent me a loving heart, or a revolutionary one -- it will suit you far more than the truth. Perhaps it will even raise your opinion of me. Ha! As if anything could!”

He laughs, and keeps his eyes fixed on Enjolras’s face. The tenderness of his eyes does not fit alongside the bitterness of his words, and Enjolras is more confused than ever.

“You come here only to mock me, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, for he feels suddenly very tired, “but despite this I wish you would stay and understand. Perhaps if I had told you to go, you would have found happier activities; perhaps you would not be so drenched in wine, as you are now, with revolutionary thoughts turning dark in your mind. We will not ever know, I think. And yet despite my thinking that you would perhaps be better off without us --” and Grantaire looks up at him, the oddest expression on his face “-- it is true that also I do not wish you to leave. I only wish,” Enjolras repeats, “that you could understand what we want to do, what we could accomplish. I have tried not to mind when you mock us, and tried harder to convince you I could be a friend, and the revolution a friend also. You do not listen.”

“I don’t understand you,” Grantaire says softly. “You are cold, and distant, like a dream -- and yet you stand here and speak to me like this! I am the drunk in your corner, and yet you smile at me, and offer your bed, and say you wish to court my friendship. Perhaps I am dreaming now! It would make sense, I think. And if I dream, I will say whatever I wish, I shall not fear your anger. I say just as much in other dreams.”

“You are not listening to me,” Enjolras says, turning away, and closing his eyes; his arms fold and rest against his chest. “You never listen to me.”

“I do not need to listen. You are an angel, and I am the most devout of worshippers. Do you not see how I come every night to lay myself at your feet?” Grantaire is smiling, and Enjolras feels suddenly tired again.

“Now you laugh at me again,” he says, “as I try to explain -- perhaps I should not have tried.”

“I believe what I say,” Grantaire says softly. “It does not always come out right, but I believe it.”

“You believe in nothing,” Enjolras tells him, and Grantaire sighs and looks at him in that same odd, tender way.

“You stand there day after day, with these revolutionary thoughts, these idiotic dreams. They never grow old in your mind, they never grow twisted. Should I try to start a revolution, my melancholy would devour the thought within a week. But every day, your dreams are still as fresh and golden as the spring. You are a miracle, Enjolras. I can find it in me, I think, to believe in that.”

Enjolras cannot say anything. His eyes are wide, his mouth glued shut. Grantaire stands, slightly wobbly on his feet, and presses a hand to Enjolras’s cheek.

“It does me no good pretending to believe in the revolutionary spirit,” Grantaire murmurs. “But I come here day after day, and you still have such fire in your eyes. I offer arguments to see if they phase you, and they never do.” His thumb moves, soft on Enjolras’s face. “You walk through fire and do not burn, and so you are the only one who could see this through. Your fire and your devotion to your mistress will see you through it.”

He laughs, a sad little laugh, not a happy one. “And as you remain devoted to Patria, so I remain devoted to you. And I drink, and I laugh, and I tease, because we are schoolboys, and that is what we must do. I have my part to play in this revolution of yours, I think. I would play it in your arms, if you would ever let me. I would play it in your bed, against your mouth, by your side. All of these things, and more, I have dreamed. I am dreaming them even now. But you do not want me there, so I stay here -- in the corner, with my wine, where I can watch the fire in your eyes.”

“You are drunk,” Enjolras says, his throat dry. Their faces are close enough that he can taste Grantaire’s breath, sweet from the wine. _All these things, and more, I have dreamed._ Has he dreamed of this? Being so close that they share breaths?

Grantaire shudders, and leans impossibly closer, for just a moment. Enjolras’s eyes fall closed, expecting -- he doesn’t know what. Even now, Grantaire is impossible to predict. “You will forget this tomorrow,” he says, and Grantaire sighs, the sweetness of his breath washing over Enjolras’s face.

“It is a distinct possibility,” Grantaire agrees. He pulls back, and lets his hand fall from Enjolras’s cheek. “Do not think I mean nothing of what I say, Enjolras. I am drunk, but then again, I am always drunk. It helps with things like love.”

He walks with admirable grace towards the door, leaving Enjolras shivering and gripping the table beside him; the candles casting hazy shadows all over the room.

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was based off [this art by batcii](http://batcii.tumblr.com/post/139445524178/batcii-an-indulgent-canon-era-enj-taire). batcii is a deity. we are lucky to have them.


End file.
